Today’s provocative question from Fandango points to a contentious issue.
‘How old are you?’ Fandango enquires.
I’ve never really understood the reasoning behind not revealing your age. Growing up, my most beloved aunt pretended to be 29 for many years. It was a joke, of course. All of us within her family (she never married nor had children of her own) knew her actual age, and we all played along nicely. But, I always wondered…what’s the deal here?
However, faced with writing the actual number on my blog somehow seems a little confronting, but here goes…
I am 50. I still think I am 25, until I come to tie up shoelaces or cut toenails. I should add here, I haven’t cut my own toenails for more than ten years as I ALWAYS have a pedicure at the local nail bar. Until this goddamn pandemic hit us, of course and I’ve been relegated to turning myself inside out to try and snip those bastards. Elaine Benes, in the Seinfeld episode entitled The Fire, was right when she said about the pinky toe, ‘It’s got that little nail that is just impossible to cut.’
Yes, back to my age. I feel like I’m 25. I think like I’m 25. I look in the mirror and become startled by a face staring back at me that is quite clearly, not 25. I don’t think I act 50, but I don’t know how a 50 year old woman is supposed to act.
I think there are no rules to age. Act whatever age you want. Feel however you want to feel. Just live your life.